A Study in Chartreuse
by Mr. Bathory
Summary: The year is 1880, and aspiring writer and poet, Arthur Kirkland, is craving a new experience. After giving up hunting for vampires to find his debut, the hunter becomes the hunted, and he spots gold-dust in a Bohemian hideout. His muse. His raison d'être. And his name is Francois Bonnefoy. (I hope you all enjoy - reviews are much appreciated 3 )
1. Chapter 1

Of all places to frequent, romanticist and writer, Arthur Kirkland, had a death-wish when entering the back-alley gin-shop. For it was not a gin-shop at all - more of a Bohemian hideout. The year was 1880, and he was itching for new experiences.

He had sought out the legendary Vampyres of London for years, with no such luck, and it was only at the precise moment he walked in through the gin-shop entrance with not a single thought of what may be lurking inside - _not even a smidgeon of hope that he may have found his vampires -_ that he _finally_ found one.

Or three. Or five. Or six.

Arthur froze in his designated corner at the realisation that typical to his renowned ill fate, just as he had given up the 'hunt', he now found himself surrounded. Swallowing his fear and keeping his dignity (because there was no way in Dante's seven hells he was leaving _now_ ), Kirkland approached the bar and - as crisply and cleanly as he could utter among the bloodthirsty rabble ensnaring his mind - he ordered a tall glass of absinthe.

Alas, he _had_ asked for a new experience, and becoming tippled with _La Fee_ in a den full of vampires seemed like the perfect recipe for a new poem or novella. It appealed to the Romantic within him, and already, without his drink even so much as being in his hand, he spotted his muse, reclined like Botticelli's Mars over an emerald, velvet chaise.

And he was _stunning._

This man was tall and slender, with chest-length flaxen hair which was cast an incandescent gold under the radiance of the dim light overhead, as if the ghost of Midas had taken each fair lock upon his head and kissed it. His clothes were fine, an explosion of rich, Mediterranean blues and travelling golds, regal purples and purest whites; whites, which almost matched his flawless skin as his silken, paisley scarf draped over his knee, his upper chest freed from the restrictions of his shirt. The contrast in colour was most striking, as his gossamer hair of spun gold curled delicately around a nude, velvety nipple. How very _scandalous_ , in our Queen's prudent society. How rebelliously charming...

In one, clawed hand, adorned with gold, the muse clutched his own glass of absinthe, although it appeared more yellow in colour than Arthur's own, as it was slid across the mahogany towards him. He couldn't help but stare, attempting to figure out exactly what beverage had painted the golden man in such a state of bliss, with his eyes resting closed, and his lips ever so slightly parted... Arthur wondered what colour his eyes were, whether he would open them to bless him with an exotic lilac gaze, a reptilian green, or even a fabled crimson-

" _Francois regularly drinks the Chartreuse._ " The barmaid sighed, bringing Arthur out of his reverie for now.

"Pardon?" He blurted out, having not entirely caught what she had said, other than ' _Chartreuse'_.

"Francois. The man on the chaise, basking under the light like some sort of serpent."

Arthur felt second-hand offense, taking the insult for _Francois_ , turning his head to regard the barmaid sternly. She was beautiful too, with long, dark blonde hair and peridot green eyes. Her accent sounded foreign, too.

"I'm Hungarian," She responded, boredly, "And his eyes are blue."

Arthur frowned, his eyes darting in a tell-tale manner to her teeth.

"Please don't read my thoughts. I'm not a book." He responded firmly but politely, being sure to present the vampire with significant respect, wanting to avoid getting his throat ripped out.

"You might as well be, with that imagination of yours." To his relief, she smiled, and he took a comforted sip of his drink, the strong, herbal taste of the absinthe perfectly combined with the melted sugar. "How is it?" The Hungarian vampire asked, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

"It's delightful, thank you." Arthur set the glass back down.

"I couldn't help but notice that you were craving new experiences..." She started again, after a moment of silence, setting the writer on edge again, "And you're wanting to write about our kind."

Arthur passed her a cautious look, "Forgive me; I know that it can be a taboo."

"Not at all. In fact, you could not have picked a better place. The vampires in here have many stories to tell. We bohemians are writers, just like you, and since ' _normal_ ' people wouldn't take kindly to hearing them, we come here to tell one another, instead. Although, there is a fine line between telling a story, and bragging; that is where dear Francois gets a little... _confused_."

The Englishman listened carefully.

"By all means, talk to him," the barmaid warned, "But you may not be able to get rid of him if you do. He is stubborn and persistent in every sense of the word. You may be better off talking to the artist, Antonio, or better yet, the musician, Gilbert. They are Francois' allies, but know when to drop a chase. Just be weary of their fledglings."

"Who are their _fledglings?_ " Arthur asked, his curiosity sparking again after another mouthful of absinthe.

"Antonio's fledgling is a young Italian boy named Lovino. He deeply resents being turned at such a young age, although Antonio reassures him that with such a youthful face, feeding is much easier. That being said, he is extremely protective of his master and will not tolerate anyone getting too close for comfort. Antonio has stated numerous times before that Lovino has an issue with attachment. As for Gilbert?" the Hungarian smirked, "His 'fledgling' is twice the size of him and acts more like a bodyguard than a child. His name is Ludwig, and he is Gilbert's younger brother."

"German?" Arthur inquired.

"Prussian."

"Ah." Arthur grimaced, aware of the reputation the Prussians have for themselves.

"Actually," The vampiress tilted her head, "I think you would find Ludwig easy to talk to. You remind me of him, in a way. So serious," A chuckle, "So _handsome._ "

At that, the writer scoffed, taking a considerable sized mouthful of absinthe.

"Me? _Handsome?_ I believe not, taking into account that I am almost thirty and still very much unmarried."

The Hungarian halted, before laughing softly, "I was talking about Ludwig, my dear. But you're not too bad looking, I suppose. Perhaps if you tidied up your hair and plucked those unruly eyebrows-"

"Yes, yes, that is quite enough, thank you." Arthur snipped, straightening up, "My eyebrows are staying just as they are."

"Hmm."

There was a moment of silence between them before the Englishman slid the empty glass back across the bar.

"He's awake now. You should seize your chance before he spots something pretty in a corset."


	2. Chapter 2

If the term 'cold feet' could have applied to a man in a room full of vampires, it would definitely have been in use a few hours after Mr. Kirkland made the decision to attempt to subject himself to Francois Bonnefoy. _Attempt_ , because he was failing. Miserably.

The tables had turned drastically; whereas he once sought to hunt and kill any vampires, armed with holy water, salt and a silver stake, he now had to figure out how to draw the vampire to him, because every time he planned to get closer to his muse, the more he was compromised by the others in the room.

So Arthur Kirkland did what Arthur Kirkland could do best when anxious; he drank, and drank, and pretended not to notice the threatening pose of a particular aristocrat sat at a piano. He absolutely would _not_ fuck with _that._ The man looked ready to ravage him from at least thirty paces away, let alone if he got any closer. And his eyes were a burning, accusative, interrogative shade of violent violet.

Arthur knocked back another glass of absinthe, his pockets - and his head - feeling lighter than a feather. He was three sheets to the wind, and then some more, attempting to maintain what dignity he had left by taking a somewhat ridiculous stride over a large puddle on his way out through the door, although his heel landed in the back of it, and he felt the water coating the back of his ankle.

He thought nothing of it, until the water just... well. Just _stayed_ there. It was only when he drunkenly swerved himself, holding onto a wall to steady himself to take a look, that he realised he had not stepped in a puddle of water, but a puddle of _blood._

"Oh, dear _Christ."_ He cursed, now a little sober than before with his sudden shock.

He looked back up, towards the door, but there was no such pool at the entrance, now. Part of Arthur's drunk mind went wild as his too-vivid imagination was suddenly let off its hook. Thoughts and ideas of ' _perhaps it's a trap'_ and _'perhaps they left the blood there specifically for me to step in so that they could track my scent like sharks tracking bleeding prey in the sea.'_ It was enough to make his insides curdle.

"Mm, it _would_ seem that way, wouldn't it?"

Arthur almost choked on his spittle when the sight of another person leant against the wall came into view. Another person who just so happened to have a very thick, French accent, and had - like the barmaid - invaded his thoughts. The Englishman placed a hand over his heart, backing against the wall on instinct.

"Or..." A head of golden hair focused in Arthur's blurred vision, "Per'aps you're just clumsy and stepped in an equally as clumsy vampire's breakfast. Likely one of those _stupid_ fledglings."

His first thought wasn't to scream, or to run away. No, the first thought that entered Arthur's mind was,

"Breakfast? Isn't it a bit late for that? Sun will be up in a few."

He felt those deep, forget-me-not blue eyes imprinting themselves on his soul.

"You 'ave stepped in vomit, mon ami."

"... _Oh._ " He grimaced, inwardly shaking with fear, but forcing himself to be calm and composed in front of the vampire. There was nothing that would make them want to bite him more than if he began acting as their natural prey would. "Well, I suppose I'll be needing a new pair of socks." He slurred, though attempted to lighten the mood.

Francois, apparently, found his excuse of a joke funny.

"I assume I need no introduction." He hummed, once his chuckles had faded. His voice was cloying, deep and rich, every syllable uttered in a silken, mellifluous lilt. It was rather different to his own, rough, Londoner's husk.

"You're Francois Bonnefoy. How could I mistake those eyes and that hair?" Arthur responded, his language intended to be flattering, despite his unassuming tone.

"And you... Englishman? Who might you be? I heard your train of thought from my spot on the chaise. You 'ave a beautiful mind."

He couldn't help but be a little starstruck. This man, Francois, must have been a powerful vampire, to have heard him from such a distance. It only heightened his admittedly very dangerous curiosity. And to have him _compliment_ his thoughts... A _beautiful mind?_ Arthur was tickled pink, his body tingling with a happy sort of warmth. He couldn't bring himself to tell Francois to stay out of his head, as he had the Hungarian woman.

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland." He reached out, with a firm hand.

Francois, once more, found him amusing, and indulged him, taking his warm hand with a cool, slender one, his grip gentle at first, before Arthur began to feel the true power behind the vampire's grip. Arthur sighed, shakily, adrenaline rushing through him, his pulse elevating.

 _I've never been this close to a vampire before._

"No?" The Frenchman once more replied to his thoughts, "Well, in that case, Monsieur Kirkland, I am honoured to be... _your first_."

Arthur suddenly understood the Hungarian's exasperation, and why the woman would be somewhat suspicious and weary of Francois. The look in those permanently dilated pupils - the deadened eyes of a nocturnal hunter - the Romantic fashion in which he spoke, the way he leant in and took in the view of his subject before his gaze settled intently upon the lips and neck... It stirred something within Arthur that he long thought to be 'cured'.

 _Oh, dear._

The Frenchman smirked, "Alas, you are a man... But a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet."

He thought of the flowers he had sent his arranged 'sweetheart', courtesy of his parents. Then he considered Francois. He considered exploring his 'sins'. Sobering a little more, he turned his green eyes to the vampire's, in the darkened alleyway. If he wanted to experience a vampire fully, to be able to write a compelling narrative, Francois seemed like a perfect opportunity. He kept his thoughts to himself, for a moment, blocking him out, before saying, slowly,

"Just how much would you be willing to show me?" Arthur asked, bravely. This move would either be incredibly stupid, or ingenious. Life was a game of chess, and Arthur had just confronted the Queen.

Francois was silent, his lithe body leant against the bricked wall, eyes gazing at him calculatingly.

"I shall accept whatever you ask of me," He responded, finally, "Although, we must arrange a price." He added, quickly.

"What sort of price?" Arthur asked, although he had a feeling that he knew what the answer was.

"I shall tell you everything, if you feed and shelter me."


	3. Chapter 3

"Please," Arthur breathed, "Do come in."

Only when given the invitation, did Francois step over Arthur's threshold, and into the light of the hallway. In this artificial overhead light, as opposed to the dim glow in the hideout, the Frenchman's appearance almost caused Arthur to fall over his own feet.

He was ghostly pale, with deep puce circles rimming his capillary laced eyes, which were slightly bloodshot. A strong, blue vein twisted over his skull, and his fingernails were long and glassy. _Now_ Francois looked like one of the undead. The vampire sensed the human's fear and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I was wearing a glamour. I thought I may slip into something a little more comfortable."

"No, no. Not at all; comfort is a priority." Arthur said quickly, not wanting to offend the other, although he _had_ frightened the living daylights out of him. "Are you in need of nourishment?"

The questions regarding Francois' power bolted through Arthur's brain again. The ability to wear a glamour, being able to read his thoughts from a distance...

"Eager to please?"

"I _am_ your host."

 _"That_ you are."

They stared at one another for a moment, Francois' abyssal black pupils rimmed with a celestial blue halo. Arthur found himself unable to give the other his signature 'hard stare', unable to look into his eyes for long enough. Another thought that crossed his mind was the fact that a drunken Arthur had casually invited a very powerful French vampire into his home. Sober Arthur was not going to be best pleased.

"Follow me." Arthur broke the silence at long last, keeping his eye on Francois, not turning his back for more than a second as he entered the study.

The Englishman fumbled around for the light-switch, panicking first when he couldn't find it, and then again when Francois' cool hand slid over the top of his own to click the switch.

Arthur ripped his hand away quickly, as though he had been burnt. Francois didn't seem to care, and if he did, then he hid it well.

"Why don't you get yourself comfortable on the chaise?" The Vampire suggested, removing his coat, top hat, scarf and waistcoat.

"Of course." Arthur responded, though somewhat hesitant. He spied his notepad and pen quickly, keeping in mind where it was - he was so drunk that he would absolutely need to document this experience while awake, or else he would forget it by the time he woke again.

The room was darker than the hallway, and reflected Arthur's decadent taste in furniture even more, with the heavy velvet curtains, hardwood flooring and walls lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, from the works of Dickens to those of Shakespeare. Arthur's personal favourites were Coriolanus, and Macbeth. An oaken writing desk housed Arthur's own works, and a few bottles of gin or brandy, in the drawers.

Carefully, under the observant watch of the vampire, Arthur removed his shoes, socks, scarf, jacket and waistcoat, unbuttoning his shirt before cautiously approaching the chaise.

His heart was pounding in his chest, causing his skin to sweat, his face and chest to become flush and rosy in his nervousness. He felt as a flowered maiden, about to ascend to her marriage bed.

"Don't be shy, ma _cherie,_ " Francois tilted his head to the side in admiration, his fingertips gracing over the velvet arm of the chaise, "I won't hurt you."

Arthur clenched his jaw, his chest heaving, abdomen flexing as he psyched himself for what was about to come. He sat down beside Francois, perhaps a little stiffly. A little awkwardly. Ever the virgin.

His fear became apparent when Francois shifted into a more comfortable position, and he jumped, terribly.

The Frenchman hushed him, touching his thigh lightly, demonstrating his gentle touch. Francois' hands skimmed up to Arthur's collarbone, shifting the collar of his shirt. His senses were on high alert when the tip of Francois' nose brushed over his neck.

"Can I see your teeth, first?" Arthur blurted out, shakily.

"I think it would be best if I bit you first," Francois replied truthfully, "You may be a little more than put off by them."

The Vampire kissed his neck, slowly, surprisingly warm lips bringing a smidgeon of comfort to the human - not enough to distract him from the fact that a vampire was mere moments away from biting into his neck, but just enough to pull a sigh of relief from him, and stir those resurrected desires within him. Desires he was ashamed to admit.

Francois continued kissing him, up to his lightly stubbled jaw, where he felt the vampire's silken, curly blond facial hairs against the side of his throat, a new sort of warmth burning through his veins.

" _Oh..._ " Arthur breathed, _"That's good..."_

The Frenchman chuckled against his skin, the warm breath raising gooseflesh, before he suckled upon Arthur's neck like a rearing babe. The writer was surprised to find himself surrendering, not entirely in control of himself as he exposed his neck - and thus the throbbing artery - to Francois.

He squeezed his eyes shut when Francois' hand slid further up, to the top of his inner thigh, a purposeful thumb and palm toying with his groin. Arthur sucked in a deep breath, and then gritted his teeth when he felt a row of sharp fangs dig in and puncture his skin. He gripped a fistful of Francois' hair, growling out a soft curse, before the pain melted away from his features and his face relaxed.

Arthur pressed his cheek to the vampire's golden head, exhaling through his nose before taking hold of the man's hip, pulling him closer. He wanted to regain control, and keeping a firm grip on this vampire could ensure that.

He gulped for air, his eyes rolling back, the other's name whispered like death on his lips.

" _Francois..."_

He felt a rush of euphoria, his body starting to shake, while Francois took his fill.

" _Oh, you could drink from me all night, you bastard..."_ Arthur whispered, closing his eyes again, his heat searching for friction, pushed tight against the restrictive silk of his trousers. He heard a contented moan somewhere in the sea of pleasure he was being tided into, and he shoved a greedy hand into the back of the Frenchman's trousers, squeezing and kneading lustfully.

His thighs twitched, sides quaking, his heat ascending to a whole new level as he felt something unexpectedly bursting from him, his untrained body already shuddering and clenching, flexing and jerking underneath the vampire, who soon pulled away, dizzy with delight.

" _Ngh... I'm sure your blood has turned to absinthe..._ " Francois collapsed, his tongue and teeth coated with blood. The vampire's legs were tangled with his, almost sat on Arthur's lap, his hand still resting against the Frenchman's cool, white, marble smooth buttock.

A beautiful red flush now graced the vampire's cheeks and chest, and the writer even felt something hard pressed against the side of his leg.

 _Interesting. Very interesting._

Arthur leant his head back a little further, finally getting a glance of Francois' teeth. Indeed, he would have been put off; aside from the two, beautiful and unassuming front incisors, the rest of the vampire's teeth were hooked - so as to keep its prey from escaping by anchoring into its flesh - and his lateral fangs were huge, like that of a serpent's.

The Englishman soon felt a damp discomfort in his trousers, and a throbbing ache in his neck, and embarrassment washed over him.

"...Oh, my goodness gracious..."


	4. Chapter 4

" _It was upon a midnight dreary,_

 _out in London, bleak and bleary,_

 _when I stumbled upon a strange_ _shop I had nary seen before._

 _In the skies crows flew a'flocking,_

 _so I hastened, then, and knocking,_

 _my fist rapped on wood and stone and then I opened wide the door._

 _Bottles of absinthe flowed,_

 _my pale skin, soon, it did glow,_

 _but someone paler and more glowing than I, a sight for eyes once sore,_

 _once sore, now lost, and drowning in this sight he sat before,_

 _A nameless man, beautiful - so his name I did implore_

 _of the barmaid, who said so sweetly 'Francois'."_

Arthur put down his fountain pen, and curled his toes, catching sight of his candlelit reflection in the mirror on the wall. The part of his neck that the vampire had marked was still very much a tender spot. It was red and sore, the wound deep...

The Londoner took up his pipe and filled it with sweet resin and tobacco, before lighting it.

 _Ah, sweet, sweet poppies..._


End file.
